


Analyse

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Consent is Sexy, For Science!, John is a Sex God, Just Read It!, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, OFC isn't involved in the sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protected Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smut, Tenderness, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock, Vaginal Fingering, well... sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: Neither Kittie and I are trans, all we know is what we research or learn from those who are.We are open for more discussion and more education on the trans community and always love to hear the opinions, history, and feelings of trans individuals.
Relationships: John Watson/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/323666
Comments: 21
Kudos: 80





	Analyse

**Author's Note:**

> Neither Kittie and I are trans, all we know is what we research or learn from those who are.  
> We are open for more discussion and more education on the trans community and always love to hear the opinions, history, and feelings of trans individuals.

John slammed the front door to Baker Street loudly behind him and stomped up the stairs towards the flat. It was almost two am, not really the time to be banging and stampeding through the building, but John knew that Mrs Hudson would be sound asleep with her fast-acting 'soother' and her earplugs so that somewhat lessened the guilt he would suffer through at a later time.

He knew, really, he should stop. He wasn't a stroppy teenager nor a child having a tantrum, yet he couldn't see logic and reason passed the fog of seething embarrassment. Couldn't contain his bubbling rage and stinging mortification. He was well aware of how ridiculous he was being, and normally he'd go for a hard long walk, burn off and stride away from his emotions, enough for a clear head at any rate. However, the issue, the words that had been said, the weighty, crushing slam to his ego, lingered like a bad smell.  
  
The cheek of the woman! _The utter cheek_!  
  
When he reached the door to the living room, he pushed it open with an explosive huff of annoyance, kicking off his shoes and throwing down his coat, just about stopping himself from crumpling it into a ball or thumping a cushion. John then marched into the kitchen and put on the kettle, frustration radiating from him in almost palpable waves as he pulled out the various ingredients he would need for his tea. A very strong cup of tea.

“I see the date went well.” Sherlock’s arrogant and sarcastic murmuring voice drifted in from somewhere within the living room before the man himself did, one eyebrow cocked, eyes, as usual, taking in everything they could, every little piece of evidence that stuck to John’s clothes, skin and hair. John knew what he looked like, what he must smell like.

“Sod off,” John practically hissed, almost baring his teeth with annoyance and anger. “Don't need you being all smug. Just--” He gestured vaguely, wildly, angrily. “--Finish cutting up your rabbits or whatever you were doing.”

“All done with that, actually--Although, it wasn’t rabbits,” Sherlock told him as he walked over and pushed away the mug John had thumped down on the kitchen counter. “I don’t think tea will do for this, do you?” Turning, he opened a cupboard, collecting some glass tumblers and a bottle of whiskey, giving it a small wave, head cocked and mouth twisted mischievously.

“Oh no. _No_ …” John warned, shaking his head. “This isn't another one of those ' _get John drunk so he tells me all of his secrets_ ' nights. Not going to happen.”

Sherlock hummed, pouring delicately with a tilt of his wrist, “I _never_ get you drunk,” he said, offering the filled glass to him with a small smile. "You do that all on your own."

John narrowed his eyes before taking the glass, sighing in a put-upon way as he downed the whole glass with a brief, fluttering wince. The whisky burned on its way down, and John hissed out a breath, following it up with a few more swallows to push it down, handing Sherlock the glass to refill, “Fine,” he grumbled, “Keep them coming.”

“This wouldn’t happen at all if you merely cut all of this _rubbish_ from your life as I have,” Sherlock commented idly as he poured the whiskey again and extended the glass, stepping closer to John as he did so, both of his eyebrows now raised. “You also, really, should have seen this coming. The woman is... particular. Without directions, you--” 

“Sherlock...” John growled, “I'd be very careful about what you say next, especially to a man who has just had his ego obliterated.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock leaned against the counter with his hip, “Why does it matter so much to you? This is one woman, one in how many others?”

Thirty-six.   
  
The only one in thirty-six to ever have a complaint about his prowess, but still, the disappointment stung.

John pushed the thought aside, “I've _never_ been told I was bad at sex,” he answered, “I've always made sure that they had orgasms. Multiple orgasms. I've always been a good, attentive lover and to hear someone say...” John winced at the memory and rubbed a hand down his face, scratching at the faint scrape of stubble on his chin. “That... that I just wasn't that great, was, well, was shattering really.”

“Those were her words precisely?” Sherlock asked after a sip of whiskey. "Doesn't seem too bad a comment."

John blushed, “Well, I was all – you know – post-coital and wanted to get, um, _close_ , but she was just laying there. I asked if she was okay and she asked, 'Do you always do that?' When I asked her what she meant, she gave me a running commentary on how badly I had performed. How my fingers weren't long enough, how my thrusts didn't go quick enough, hard enough, how...” He hesitated for a second, losing his temper and feeling the sting all over again. “How I... finished too early--Which I _didn't_! I mean… it had been a while and well, okay, maybe it was a _bit_ brief but still, fifteen minutes is a decent time!” Grumbling, John took his whisky and downed it again, pushing the glass back to Sherlock.

Sherlock, his lips pressed together in faint amusement, filled it up again, “Well, she’s lying about the finger thing,” he said. “You’re a doctor and have thrust your fingers into many an orifice without any issue concerning finger size. You don’t need long fingers to do what I assume you’re implying you did. Length isn’t really something people should fixate on. Girth is more sought after. And you have very thick fingers--”

“ _Exactly_ !” John answered, sloshing some of the whisky out of his glass as he gestured. It landed on his hand, which he slurped up. “I've _never_ had any complaints before. I've made women squi-- never mind.” He coughed, sheepish at what he'd just said and tugged at the collar of his jumper. “I just... she's knocked my confidence. - What if all those other women were lying? What if I'm terrible and nobody else has ever told me the truth?”

“That... could be possible,” Sherlock shrugged, flashing him a smirk when John glared. “It’s not though, clearly. If you were so bad, they wouldn’t keep coming back for more, would they? Not that it matters. There are more important things to life than--”

“Have you ever had sex?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I'm not about to get a lecture about what is more important than sex by someone who has never experienced it.”

Sherlock scowled in reply, mouth pursing on a frustrated pout, “Define ‘sex,’” he said after a pause, taking a drink.

John thought for a second, slightly ashamed of what he'd said and not wanting to embarrass Sherlock further. Despite the various conversations they'd had around John's sex life (or lack of it) they had never discussed Sherlock's, and John didn't want to pry into his friend's personal life, “Anything that involves genital contact. Over the clothes, under the clothes or penetrative.”

“Then yes,” Sherlock responded with a quick grin. “Though, even if I had done nothing at all, you can’t dismiss my opinion on the matter. - There are more important things than sex. Lots of them. Lots and lots.”

“I'm sure there are, but to me, sex _is_ an important thing. For many reasons, not all of them centred around getting off,” John commented as he took another drink. The whisky was certainly making him looser, calmer, and a little spacey. He grinned and pointed at Sherlock, cradling the tumbler to his chest. “I bet you were brutally honest to the person you shagged. Telling him exactly how he did. - Did you make a powerpoint presentation? With graphs to show the percentage of sensation?”

Sherlock’s grin twitched wider but he wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes in a brief glare, “Perhaps that's something you should do? Or, better yet, have each woman fill out a questionnaire by the end of the night to see how well you performed?”

“Maybe I need someone to volunteer to shag me instead,” John laughed. “Give me an analysis of my _skills_.”

Something in the way Sherlock’s head tilted in response made any hint of joking hilarity instantly evaporate and John tensed up as Sherlock gave him a considering look, eyes narrowed, “All right,” he agreed before John could open his mouth and question him. “Who better than _me_ to analyse you. Give you the opportunity for a completely honest critique.”

“What? Wait… _what_?” John garbled, putting his whisky to one side and shaking his head, waving his hand. “I wasn't suggesting… I wasn't – _that wasn't_ – Oh God.”

Frowning, Sherlock fiddled with his own drink and then shrugged, “I’m volunteering.”

“Why would you...” John blinked, wondering if it was the alcohol which was behind the raising, tingling excitement at the prospect, “I mean… you said yourself you don't do this – I… Are you sure?”

“You trust me, don’t you? Trust my word? Trust that I won’t lie to you about this, that I’d be as blunt and honest as possible?” Sherlock said, not waiting for an answer as he finished the rest of his whiskey and put the glass down like a gavel. “ _Tomorrow_.”

“Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow.” John nodded, a little bit stunned and dizzy at the quick rush of blood, of heat, in response, “And you're, er, sure about the er…” He gestured at Sherlock's body, flushed in the face and uncertain, overwhelmed. “I mean, I'll always consider you a man. You're a bloke to me. So, um, I don't want you feeling like you have to play a certain role...”

“I’m proud of who I am,” Sherlock told him confidently. “And I wouldn’t have offered in the first place if I wasn’t sure. It will be... interesting. I’m _curious_.”

“I'm sure it will be,” John grinned, looking down at his feet nervously, shocked at his lack of panic, of how eager he was to sleep with his best friend, his flatmate, just to reinflate his ego. “So, tomorrow then?”

“A little after breakfast,” Sherlock added with a nod, putting the whiskey back into the cupboard with one hand. “Curtains open, so I can see as clearly as possible, for added scrutiny. On the rare off chance that there was something these women found off-putting about your overall you-ness - And no, I don’t mean your scar.” 

John smiled softly, filling his glass tumbler with water and finishing it in three large gulps, “Tomorrow. I have lube and condoms, but bring anything else you might need.”

Sherlock gave him a look as he turned towards his bedroom, “No. _You_ bring what you might need. We’re doing this in _my_ room.”

John had never really been inside Sherlock's room, other than to deposit him in there when he was drugged or exhausted. It would be quite surreal to be having this experience in Sherlock's bed. “Sounds – fine,” John said, coughing and light-headed. “Goodnight then…”

“I’d rather do this with you unattached too,” Sherlock told him flippantly. “I know you didn’t break it off with her, so please do. I’m not going to be someone you practice on before going back to _her_.”

“Yeah… yeah of course,” John nodded, reaching for his phone and sending a quick text. He distantly realised how ' _not good_ ' it was to text someone after three am to dump them only hours after having had sex with them, but he couldn't fully process it. Couldn't find the will to care much at all and instead wiggled the phone with a casual shrug. “Done.”

Sherlock blinked and then shot him a small, if arrogant smile, “Good. Good night, John,” he said, disappearing down the corridor.

* * *

John woke up some hours later with a headache and a constant, high-pitched, rhythmic chirp in his ear. Groaning, he pushed himself into a seating position and batted at his phone until it went silent, looking at the messages which had come through overnight. Susan had not taken the dumping well. She was throwing quite a hissy fit judging by the number of messages, with countless more still pinging up. Although what she expected after telling her date that he was shit in bed, John wasn't sure.  
  
Collecting his thoughts and pulling on his clothes, John headed downstairs to use the loo and have a shower. The thoughts of what he and Sherlock had agreed rushed over him as he stepped in, smelling the familiar spice of Sherlock's cologne, and he stared at the bathroom tiles with emotions and thoughts spinning around his brain as he washed himself thoroughly, then headed back upstairs to dry and redress. The condoms and lube were in the top drawer and John grabbed them, mind still whirling, before he rushed down towards Sherlock's bedroom as quickly as he could, trying not to have second thoughts. Trying not to have a crisis, a breakdown, a panic attack.  
  
Knocking in a quick, rapping, skittish pattern, John waited only a second and pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door, “Hey, are you awake?” he asked.

“I am now,” Sherlock grunted from the bundle of blankets, his hair fluffed up and twisted into all manner of tufts. He blinked blearily at John as he sat up, stretching his back with an arch. “As much as I’m flattered by your enthusiasm, I _did_ say after breakfast.”

“I wasn't sure when you'd be up and… well… yeah,” John shrugged uselessly, heart in his throat. He felt stupid and sad. “I'll just make tea or something. It's fine. There's no rush. None at all.”

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow, “Says the man with his hands full of condoms and lubricant…”

John flushed, “I didn't want to forget them and have to run back upstairs,” he muttered and walked to Sherlock's bedside table, putting them down and stepping back.

“...Right,” Sherlock snorted and then looked up at him. “Go away then. Make breakfast. Tea, eggs, toast and so on.”

“Is it worth having a big breakfast?” John asked, trying to sound nonchalant and not at all pathetic and needy and out of his depth. “I mean, you can't swim after eating so… probably shouldn't shag after it either. Don't want to get a stitch. Or cramp.”

“You need your energy up if we’re going to go past fifteen minutes,” Sherlock countered quickly with a slanted grin as he pushed the covers back and stood up, tugging up his ruffled pyjamas bottoms. 

John grimaced and then huffed, “Bacon sandwiches alright?” he grumbled, turning to head to the kitchen.

“ _Perfect_ ,” Sherlock told him happily and before John could walk away, dragging his feet, Sherlock smacked his backside with a brazenly playful grin, slipping into the bathroom. “Always wanted to do that.” He winked and shut the door, the warped glass not enough to cover the flash of pale naked skin as Sherlock undressed, swaggering to the shower.

“Prat!” John shouted after him with a smirk, confidence boosted.   
  
One bacon sandwich, two cups of tea and a read of the Sunday paper later, and John was tetchy and impatient. He knew that it was obvious, knew that Sherlock knew, yet whenever he kept looking over at him, watching him closely, trying to get a reaction, the man merely hummed at an article on something science-related and ignored him. It irked him, as Sherlock's dismissive nature always irked him, but now there was something more to it and John, still nowhere closer to thinking through his decisions, felt more than a little agitated and like he was practically vibrating out of his skin. 

John collected their dishes and put them into the sink, turning to rest back against the counter, “I thought we should talk about what is and isn't okay to do,” he began.

Digging into his dressing gown pocket, Sherlock held out a piece of folded paper, “ _Done_ ,” he said, still not looking away from the newspaper. “Considering I am to be critiquing you on the techniques you presented to your ex-date, ones which she bashed, and techniques you probably consistently try on women when bedding them for the first time, we shall be focusing on them only. The moves you make, the things you do, in one night, and _not_ what you might do on another when you are more comfortable and have learned her body.” He gave John a sideways look. “So fingering and penetrative sex.”

“Oral sex?” John asked, “I mean… I don't do that every first time but – sometimes?”

“How often is ‘sometimes?’” Sherlock huffed.

John smirked, “Depends how much I like them,” he answered, holding his hands up at Sherlock's unimpressed eyebrow raise. “We don't have to do oral. What about kissing? I like to kiss. I kissed her.”

“No, this is about your bedroom antics only. She didn’t comment on your kissing. You kissed her before you took her to bed, yet she said nothing negative about it,” Sherlock said, going back to the newspaper.

“No. No, but kissing is a major part of foreplay,” John insisted. “There is a lot you can do whilst kissing. It's a good lead up to the main event.”

“I’m not going to give you feedback on everything you can or might do with a woman, John,” Sherlock told him. “I have selected a few things for now, and that’s all. I don’t see how we have to make it more complicated than it should be. You wanted to know, _truthfully_ , how you are in bed. How you were during your night with her. In that night you mainly used your fingers and your penis, so that’s what we’ll focus on.”

“So I'll just finger you dry shall I?” John scoffed, shrugging at Sherlock's peeved, sharp, displeased glance. “You expect to go into this without foreplay? Without getting you… warmed up? - Fine, okay. It's your call.”

“You will be ‘warming me up’ with your fingers,” Sherlock said with a scowl in his direction, folding the paper to chuck it aside. “That _is_ possible, you know.”

“Okay, Okay,” John replied with a drawn-out sigh. “So no kissing or extra foreplay. Just fingering and shagging. Got it.”

Sherlock exhaled loudly and tightly in aggravation, giving him a tight, condescending like smile, “Extra foreplay being what then?”

“You know… the usual,” John huffed, crossing his arms defensively, feeling a bit off-kilter and embarrassed. “Neck kissing, nipple touching… er… rimming? Sometimes. The stuff that people do.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stood up to stand in front of him, “This isn’t a complete recreation of the night you apparently failed to pleasure a woman, as I am not her, you don’t have the same feelings for me as for her, and because of that, things will obviously be different, there is no way around that. Our relationship alone changes the dynamic of what we’re going to do,” he said, “However, to find out if she was right to snub your techniques, you need to use the _same_ techniques she disliked upon me, so I can give you an honest opinion. For today, that’s all we’ll be doing, so I can tell you if she was right or wrong on those certain, _specific_ , things she mentioned. - Then, if you would like, I can critique you on... everything else.” He glanced away very briefly, eyes flitting to one side, cheeks flushing, but his face remained impassive. “All right?”

John blinked and adjusted his stance at that and nodded, trying not to express how keen he was about that offer, “Yeah… yeah, that sounds fair. Okay, good. Shall we?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered and motioned for John to go through first.

John smiled slightly and headed out, walking towards Sherlock's bedroom where he stepped through and then hesitated by the bed, “Do you want me to strip now? You said you wanted to look?”

Sherlock came in after him, shutting the door to both the bathroom and the bedroom with soft clicks, “Yes,” he said, wandering over to push the curtains open a little further, letting in more of the sunlight that pried through the gathering clouds outside.

“Just – reassure me,” John said as his gaze was drawn to the view and he peered out of the window with churning suspicion and self-consciousness. “Your brother doesn't have any CCTV cameras that can see into this window, does he? That is the last thing I need.”

“He did,” Sherlock mentioned and watched as John paused briefly in the middle of pulling off his jumper and vest, leaning up against the wall, “but not any more. Not for a long while.” John let out a quiet breath of relief and continued, tugging off his socks, then undoing his jeans. Sherlock eyed the discarded clothes and tilted his head, mouth and brow quirked. “Were you this messy at her place?”

“We were a bit more impatient, too impatient to really care where anything landed, so... yes, I suppose I was,” John laughed. “Think we lost her bra behind the telly.” He shimmied out of his jeans with as much dignity as he could muster and stood in his pair of loose, blue underpants, touching the waistband. “These off too?”

“Unless you normally have sex with your underwear on?” Sherlock asked him.

“Could fish it through the gap,” John grumbled, but hooked his thumbs in and took them down, letting them fall to the floor with a comedic whistle, bearing himself completely. He took a steadying breath as he straightened, looking Sherlock dead in the face and let him look. “Do you want me to do a little spin? I can do some poses if you like?” 

Sherlock’s unreadable expression cracked with a smile, “Turning would be good, yes,” he said, signalling as such with his index finger. “Clockwise and steadily.”

John let out a hum of amusement and slowly began to turn, automatically tensing his glutes in fleeting insecurity when Sherlock was able to see, feeling the muscles jumping. “Take it all in Holmes. Am I a fine specimen of a man? Or merely mediocre?” 

Snorting, Sherlock then closed the distance between them to take John's naked shoulders in a light grasp, stilling the movement, “I’ve seen worse, I suppose,” he replied.

“You mostly look at corpses, so I would hope so,” John smirked, feeling himself flinch with a pang of embarrassment when Sherlock began giving the splash of pink raised fibrous tissue a quick once over, greedily taking it in with an intense, but momentary stare.

“Yeah, the wound itself wasn't too bad,” John answered the unasked question, looking at his shoulder. “But it was the infection that made it this raised. They had to cut out a load, skin grafts which didn't take – it was a mess. But, I'm alive and that's all that matters.”

Running his hands down John’s arms, Sherlock gave him a vague nod, then stepped to the side, undoing his dressing gown to hang it up on the handle of the wardrobe, “Yes, that’s all that matters,” he repeated. John regarded Sherlock's movements with bated breath, it seemed surreal and unexpected, yet John was becoming less nervous or afraid. He was actually quite excited to get down to it. Sherlock stepped back up to him as he took off his soft-looking t-shirt. “You can get on the bed.”

John let his eyes linger across Sherlock's toned chest, the endless miles of pale skin with the dusky pink coloured nipples being the only splash of colour, ringed with pale scars. Sherlock had explained, more or less, about his transition early in their friendship so there was no confusion. No unnecessary questions. No annoying, aggravating surprises. Offhandedly he had told John that he hadn't gone for bottom surgery and regaled him instead about his keyhole top surgery, said that despite the fact his chest had never been overly large anyway due to genetics, remaining practically none existent throughout puberty, helped along with the additional exercise of dancing, he had wanted to be rid of the blasted tissue regardless. John had asked questions, mostly about medications and any concerns he should know about, but after being snugged and scoffed at, waved away, he let most of them go quickly, accepting Sherlock for who he was. Sherlock Holmes was a man and that was all there was to it.

After a few moments of ogling, John stepped back and sat on the bed, shuffling backwards until he was laid with one arm behind his head on Sherlock's pillows. For a moment it looked as though Sherlock felt self-conscious at John’s staring, as he looked away, trailed his fingers along the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and shifted in place, though it barely lasted more than a second, no longer than it took John to take a breath to ask if he was all right, and all too soon Sherlock was elegantly baring himself to John’s eager gaze. He stood at the side of the bed for few breaths, the whole expanse of him on display, and gave John a small smile, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

“Good,” John replied quietly with a reassuring smile, taken by the toned length of his legs. “You look… yeah – ahem - good.”

“Just good?” Sherlock asked with a teasing huff, perching himself on the bed and nudging John with his hand. “Where would you like me? Was she lying down on her back?”

John thought back and then nodded, “Yes, on her back. Pillow under her hips. I went, er, between her legs. - Do you mind?”

Sherlock shot him an unimpressed look, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me a ridiculous question and move on,” he said, grabbing a pillow, lounging back, and lithely lifting his lower body up in a blatant showy move of flexible core strength. "We have already established that you are you, and I am taking the place of her, in this scenario. I chose this and this does not offend me."

John huffed, but didn't argue and reached over to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table, dropping it to his side. He shuffled into a comfortable position laying on his front, closer to Sherlock's genitals than he had ever imagined before. Sherlock's groin was well cared for and neatly, groomed, rather pretty in a genitals type way.  
  
“I'm going to touch you a little, just sensitise you to my touch. You said it wasn't going to be a complete recreation,” John said as he ran a hand up Sherlock's tightly tensed thigh, skin smooth and hot beneath his palm. “And it's not exactly foreplay, this bit. Just, um, just I think we'd both prefer if we had some time to – adjust to this situation.”

“... All right,” Sherlock agreed, clearing his throat and resting his hands, one on top of the other, upon his chest in an awkward, yet strangely adorable and unsure way. Evidently he didn’t know what to do with them. He even began drumming his fingers in a smooth, calming rhythm. 

John caressed down to Sherlock's knees and then up as far as his navel, avoiding what lay between Sherlock's legs at first, running interested fingers around Sherlock's hips and up his side, exploring the skin he'd only briefly glimpsed prior to this day, before he finally decided to touch private, sensitive flesh. With a careful, cautious questioning brush, John simply cupped the outline of Sherlock's sex at the responding, accepting nod, and rolled and stroked his fingers against the pretty pink of him. John could smell his growing excitement already, the feeling of moisture gathering where he touched churning a hot desire in his gut and encouraging longer strokes, more confident inspection.

“Can I touch you here?” he asked, using the V of his two fingers to gently skim up and down to stimulate Sherlock's enlarged clitoris as emphasis.

“If... that’s what you did,” Sherlock answered, already surprisingly breathless. When John glanced at his face, he found it flushed, his lips pressed together and then bitten down upon, eyes slightly glazed with dilated pupils. Sherlock was the perfect picture of arousal. Although he was trying to keep control, trying to stop himself from breathing too hard, too loud, and too fast, it was obvious from the blotchy blush that bloomed down his throat that he was overcome already. It had taken Susan far longer to look like that.

"It is," John smiled in reply and continued to tease and lightly touch, rocking and sliding his fingers and hand up and down, occasionally pinching his fingers together.

Leaning forward, he kissed Sherlock's hipbone and let his eyes close, falling back into the routine of the other night, following exactly what he had done as he trailed kisses along Sherlock's toned stomach to his other hipbone. Sherlock’s skin was soft and smooth, smelling of the stupidly expensive body wash that had recently appeared in their bathroom, and as John nuzzled the beautiful curve of his hipbone with ghosting lips and the stroking nudge of his nose, Sherlock exhaled and shifted, both thighs jumping with a tense of muscles. Sherlock was receptive to the lightest touch and though he made no noise in approval, the way he fidgeted with minute twitches and inching adjustments, said more than words could ever convey. 

Using his other hand, John swept up Sherlock's waist, over his chest and then paused his kisses to look up, “Can I, er, your nipples? Touching is okay?”

Frowning in annoyance, Sherlock scoffed through his nose at him, “You have your hand on my genitals yet you’re asking for permission for my nipples? - Can you _please_ stop asking these inane questions and get on with it?”

“Alright, git. I was just making sure. I don't know what may be off-limits--”

" _Nothing_ ," Sherlock interrupted in irritation, "nothing is off-limits."

Rolling his eyes, John let a smirk curve his lips as he inched his hand higher and higher and higher, running the pad of his thumb around each areola in turn and feeling the moment that the nipple swelled and became erect with fervent glee. Now, with a combination of nipple play and gland stimulation, John was feeling more confident with his abilities, more in control, and so he let himself pick up the pace on Sherlock's genitals. Stroking, rubbing and circling the visible shape of him with his thumb and fingers.

Sherlock let out an uneven and hitching breath as the seconds ticked on, shifting again, his thigh muscles giving another few quivering jerks, “Did she dislike this?” he asked idly, voice strained.

“She was just – quiet,” John whispered in response, humming and licking his teeth, his bottom lip. He was seemingly entranced by the movement of his thumb around the tip of Sherlock's rapidly swelling nub. “She didn't really give a proper indication that she liked it or not… she got wet though? So I assumed she did.”

“Ah. Yes, well…” Sherlock choked on the next word and abruptly bent his knees with a full body shake, bringing his legs up and together, almost trapping and smacking John in the face as he did so. He coughed, reaching out with his hands to aimlessly touch and grip the blankets, and blinked widely up at the ceiling.

Feeling more than incredibly smug, John coaxed Sherlock through the remainder of his abrupt, though mild, orgasm and then slowly pet him until the aftershocks and judders rippling through his stomach had stopped. It was overpoweringly intense to see the wetness that had gathered. It glistened in the sunlight, unmistakable and aromatic. Evidence of pleasure and avid desire. Deciding he wouldn't need to use the lubricant just yet, John moved his fingers down, trailing them teasingly until he reached Sherlock's entrance. It was scorching hot and nicely wet, and John carefully dipped his index finger inside to the first knuckle.

“Tell me if you don't like something. Don't want you being a martyr for this silly experiment,” he told him, sentence half-muffled as he bent and kissed Sherlock's hip again, unable to stop himself.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, still dazed, and glanced briefly down at John, “Of course I’ll tell you. That’s the whole point of this,” he said, a husky quality to his voice now. He clenched his toes and rubbed his lower back against the pillow beneath, taking some slow and deep inhalations through his nose.

“Okay, good,” John smiled, using his thumb to continue stroking Sherlock while he slowly began pushing his finger deeper inside, giving it a small wiggle as he began a steady rhythm. “I like to take my time with this...”

“So… out of the fifteen minutes, how many did you spend doing this? Twelve?” Sherlock asked, trying to be mocking but ultimately failing when John sighed against his flushed and sensitive genitals.

“Shut up,” John retorted, leaning in to nip and bite at Sherlock's flushed pelvis, something he hadn't done that with Susan of course, but he decided that Sherlock might overlook it. “About ten minutes? I didn't exactly time it!”

Sherlock snorted out a laugh, “No, but you knew that it took you fifteen minutes overall, so I’m sure you can work it out, John,” he replied, one of his hands moving to push his fringe from his forehead. He was hot and perspiring, his brow and temples glinting in the light that bathed his face.

John chose to ignore him and his smug, knowing gaze and focussed instead on building the pleasure, hoping it would silence him. He pulled his finger out after a few more moments of wiggling and gently replaced it with two, gradually inserting them, inching their way inside so not to hurt Sherlock. Sherlock was still attractively wet, but John didn't want him to become sore through vigorous movement, so he reached for the lube, adding a glob of it to his digits to ease the way to the second knuckle.

“Soon, I'm going to start getting faster, and I'll also begin to rub your G-spot. Some people don't like that, so if it becomes uncomfortable tell me and I'll leave off.”

“Did she like it?” Sherlock asked him, lifting his head with an arched eyebrow and a critical gaze. His cheeks were the reddest John had ever seen them.

Thinking back once more, John realised he couldn't really recall, “She seemed to? She didn't complain but she didn't exactly go wild either… she just kind of – laid there.”

“Strange how you didn’t question that. You seem to question quite a lot with me, yet did it not occur to you to do the same with her and ask her if she liked it?” With a curling, teasing smile, Sherlock cocked his head to one side, “And her lying there like a dead fish didn’t clue you in to her disapproval?” In amusement, eyeing his own body, he rolled his hips and parted his legs to the side a little more with a mischievous expression, “Perhaps you ought to have forced a reaction? Got her attention another way? Completely taking her by surprise by adding another element to your technique.” 

“I tried getting her to talk,” John grumbled, increasing the pace of his fingers movements as he thought of what Sherlock was suggesting. “But she just made 'Mmm' noises, which weren't really helpful.”

He considered how he could possibly give Sherlock what he assumed he was asking for, grinned after a second of thought shuffling up so he was leaning on one forearm. Without giving Sherlock a clue as to what he had planned, John didn't react to Sherlock's interested and questioning eyebrow quirk, and instead immediately dipped his head down to take Sherlock into his mouth. He licked, kissed and gently sucked, cricking his fingers onto Sherlock's G-spot. He didn't go hard – if anything it was a soft, caress to be combined with his suction - but Sherlock's reaction was immediate and deeply arousing.

“ _Fuck_!”

He arched up tautly, hands slapping down onto John’s head to take handfuls of his short hair, tugging at his scalp in a mix of pain and pleasure, a garbled, high-pitched exclamation exploding, uncontrollably, from his pleasured grimacing face. It only took another few sucking kisses and a light, tickling wave of the very tip of John’s tongue to have Sherlock gasping and shaking in orgasm again, his thighs clamping down like a vice into the side of John’s skull, crushing his ears. John felt the rippling spasm around his fingers, a firm, tight, hot clenching that made him dizzy.

Giving Sherlock a few final intimate pecks, John pulled away and attempted to discreetly wipe his mouth on his shoulder, even as his fingers continued their slow rhythm inside. He didn't want to stop immediately, he wanted to increase and draw-out Sherlock's pleasure for as long as possible, until the flutters of his insides had ceased. John was eager to see him crumble apart for as long and as much as permitted. It was addicting to see Sherlock so overwhelmed and overruled by his body, control gone. Trust utterly and implicitly given. He had been given the privilege to see Sherlock as his most raw, most bare, most vulnerable, and he was beginning to get high on the freedom that gave him, that gave them.  
  
After a few long moments, Sherlock had regained control of his breathing and clenching muscles, allowing John to pull his fingers out, “Okay?” he gasped out. His cock was throbbing with need, and John reached down to squeeze some of the tension away, reeling from the amount of relief that gave him as he smiled up at Sherlock.

Nodding wonkily, Sherlock closed his eyes and dropped his hands away from John’s hair, trying to relax his shaking legs apart again, “Yes,” he whispered. “Fine.”

“Take a few deep breaths, just – enjoy the afterglow,” John insisted with chuckling huff, running his hand over Sherlock's stomach and down to his thighs again, “We still have about eight minutes to go.” 

Laughing, Sherlock peeked down at him through his lashes, “Eight minutes more of this or eight minutes wherein you’ll have your _wicked_ way with me?”

“Eight spectacular minutes of mind-blowing sex… I hope,” he replied and sat back on his heels, giving Sherlock his first glimpse of his erection. John knew what he looked like. He was thick but quite average in length, and uncut, the foreskin currently pulled back over the flushed tip beaded with pre-come, which dripped steadily down his shaft and towards his testicles. Surprisingly, John didn't feel half as exposed as he expected in front of Sherlock and he leaned across to reach a strip of condoms, pushing his cock into the skin of Sherlock's upper thigh with a deep and filthy moan. “ _God_ , that shouldn't feel as good as it does...” 

With a shudder of excitement it seemed he couldn’t suppress, Sherlock took John in with widening eyes, “Sh-shouldn’t it?” he asked in response, pushing slowly up onto his elbows with a heavy, chest expanding, rib exposing breath. 

“Not when it's just your leg, no,” John laughed as he sat back on his heels. “Maybe she had a point about my stamina? - _Oh,_ she did… between this and sex… there was--but it doesn't matter… it's fine.”

“She did something?” Sherlock asked with a sudden frown. 

“She sucked me off, a bit,” John said with a clearing of his throat. “And that might have been the reason. That might have shortened my stamina a little.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed further for a moment and then shot up in blatant mocking surprise, “Does it normally shorten your stamina?” he asked with a grin he wasn’t entirely successful in stifling. His eyes dropped to John’s cock again, flitting along the thick, hard line of him. “How long was ‘a bit?’ A minute? Less? More?”

John could have lied and extended how much in an attempt to get a longer blowjob, but he didn't think he'd be able to get away with it. Instead, he shrugged, “Maybe three minutes? - This is all guesswork by the way! I have no real scientific way of proving it.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock purred, the grin now a smirk. “All right then.”

“Yeah?” John asked, shocked and giddy in want, a loose smile forming. He looked down at himself as he twitched hopefully and then shot a glance to the packets he still held in his grip. “I can put a condom on? I've been tested recently, and I always use condoms with my partners but – not always for oral. I don't mind though.” 

“Me neither,” Sherlock told him and gestured him over with a crooking of two fingers. “Come here.”

John shuffled on his knees along the side of Sherlock's supine body, his cock bobbing thick and heavy between his thighs as he moved, and steadied himself on the headboard with a peering look at Sherlock, “Right. Um, how would you? I mean… what's easier for you to do this?” Feeling that Sherlock would roll his eyes and ask more questions about his previous night, John quickly continued, lifting a hand to stop any forthcoming demands. “I straddled her, before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to, as I did suspect that was the case, so straddle away,” Sherlock told him as he tapped his own torso.

John kept hold of the headboard as he lifted a leg over and began to settle in place, it wasn't a dignified position, and he had to stop to reposition his bollocks twice but it hadn't been exactly perfect with Susan either, “Tell me if it gets too much,” John said softly, barely able to look down at the view of Sherlock's open lips, as pink and wet as his eager body, seemingly excited to get a taste of John and a hovering, shifting tongue.

“Tell me when to stop,” Sherlock countered, breathing hot against him as he craned his neck, adjusted a pillow beneath his head and got his hands around John to cup his backside. He hoisted him up and forward, tipping John slightly off balance with a playful and seductive glance up. It was quite a sight, seeing Sherlock with John’s erection slotted up against his cheek, leaving a trail of slickness in its wake. “Evidently this will affect you differently. I am not her.”

“No… no, you _definitely_ aren't,” John moaned with gruff, desirous intent, dropping the condoms aside and supporting himself on the wooden headboard with both hands, allowing Sherlock the freedom and control to set the pace. “I'll tell you when I'm close, don't worry.”

Taking some time to press his nose into the base, literally nuzzling the skin there, Sherlock then drew his lips up the side of the taut length of John and gave the tip a light, breathy kiss, “You can, and probably should, hold my head a bit,” he said before taking John into his mouth without warning, stretching his lips around the wide girth of him with a fanning of his lashes and a low moan.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John breathed, moving one hand to tangle in his hair. He didn't hold too tightly, but he certainly gripped hard enough for Sherlock to feel, as his hips bucked forward an inch or two and he let loose a deep, groan.

He could just barely remember how it had been with Susan now and tried to compare, eager and happy to find fault with her, but as Sherlock took him further into his mouth, then down a tensing, gripping throat, he lost all thought entirely. Sherlock looked up at him when he pulled off, mouth already red and bottom lip dotted with saliva and pre-come both. He flashed John a quirk of a grin and sucked him back in, steadily bobbing his head, focusing his tongue on John’s retracted foreskin, on his tingling frenulum, and then on the weeping slit at the head of his throbbing cock.

“Jesus fucking… _fuck_ ,” John barked, fingers tightening in Sherlock's curls as he looked down in awe. He had never had anyone able to deep throat him before, and the knowledge that it was Sherlock was almost enough for him to end prematurely. “Just there...” He only just managed to utter the choked words once Sherlock returned back to his sensitive frenulum and he took a hitching, sharp very breath, letting his head loll forward. “Oh, God...”

Humming huskily, Sherlock dipped and circled his tongue around his foreskin again, tugging at it with soft lips and a softer, teasing suction as he slipped it back over John’s shiny, reddened glans. It rolled over all the right places, enclosing and stroking his sensitive head once and then twice, until Sherlock wriggled his tongue in to rock, twist and spread along and over John’s frenulum yet again. When he flicked his gaze up at John with an impish glint in his eyes, John was scarcely able to wrangle in his bracing control before Sherlock swallowed him down wholly, nose pushed up against John’s pelvis.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” John chanted, eyes intensely focussed, pinned, enraptured on Sherlock's stretched open lips and fluttering eyelashes. Sherlock looked beautiful, how had John never noticed how utterly gorgeous his flatmate was? “Stop... wait… _hold on_.” Digging his nails into the headboard to ground himself, John pulled his trembling hips back with a gasp. “God, that's _too_ amazing.”

Tipping his head back, Sherlock let John’s cock pop wetly from his mouth with an engorged, weighty bounce, “Mm. Was _she_?”

John blinked, trying to focus his thoughts, before he shook his head, “She most certainly wasn't…”

“ _Really_?” Sherlock asked, sounding immensely smug, his hands smoothing gently up John’s lower back. 

“I've never had...” John breathed, panting hard, a quivering giggle bubbling forth. “I've never had anyone be able to go that deep before. I think you've broken me for anyone else.”

“No one? Ever?” Sherlock only sounded more smug the more he spoke. “Surely there was _someone_?”

“Never,” John snorted. “Not even close--Stop looking so smug! God, you're so self-satisfied! I'll go back down on you if you're not careful, make you go brainless again.”

Snorting, Sherlock smirked up at him, “I’m surprised. I would have thought, somewhere along the line, you’d have enjoyed yourself. Otherwise, why have sex at all if it’s not overly good?”

“It's never been bad!” John scoffed, “It's just never been --” He trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence, and let his roaming gaze fall to a trail of pre-come that was dripping down towards Sherlock's upturned face. “It's... never been that good.”

“Then I think I have every right to be smug,” Sherlock told him.

John huffed, crossing his arms, knowing how ridiculous he must look, “Shut up and let me shag you.”

Extending his tongue, Sherlock licked a bold, quick path up the underside of John’s cock, catching and lapping up the pre-come with a humming moan, “With pleasure,” he said against John’s glistening slit.

“You fiend,” John grumbled, dismounting off Sherlock's torso to get back onto the bed and finally take out a condom, putting in on with practised ease. “We did it missionary. That good for you?”

“Missionary is perfectly fine,” Sherlock said as he licked his lips and moved his legs in invitation. 

John moved between them, settling into the gap of Sherlock's spread legs, adding more lube to his hand, his fingers, the condom and then carefully pushed his fingers back inside to faintly stretch and thrust, “You okay?” he asked, stroking his thumb around Sherlock's jutting, engorged, protuberance. “You ready?”

“Did you ask her this?” Sherlock huffed impatiently, hips hitching up with each rotation of John’s touch.

John frowned, mildly offended, “Of course I did, I _always_ ask...” he sighed, “I – I don't like the thought of people changing their mind and being too nervous to say anything. So I ask. - Plus, I need to make sure people are comfortably laid. Don't want to do an injury and end up in A&E.”

“I would voice whatever issue I have and I have none,” Sherlock retorted, reaching to adjust and plump the pillow under his hips, clearly happy to still have it there. “Of course I’m okay. _Clearly_ I’m ready. And I am _very_ comfortably laid.”

John rolled his eyes, but continued his steady stretching and pressing until he thought Sherlock relaxed enough, ready enough, for him to then use his free hand to press the tip of his cock within, inching it in gradually, “ _Fuck_ , you're tight,” he groaned out, biting his bottom lip, his thumb continued a slow, shaky rhythm on Sherlock's gland.

Sherlock blinked silently up at him, his breath held until John was fully sheathed, to which he let it out with a choked sound in his throat, “Was she?” he asked in a gasp.

“N-Not like this,” John moaned, moving his now unoccupied hand to brace and hold himself up. He let his head fall forward until his hair was lightly brushing Sherlock's forehead and looked at him, peered into his lidded eyes. Pulling out a few inches, John stared at him, feeling his breath on his face, and pressed back in with a trembling shudder. “ _Christ_ … It's like you're sucking me in.” 

The movement forced a ragged groan from Sherlock, who scrambled to suddenly take hold of John’s back with shocked eagerness. His legs flexed at John’s sides, closing in strongly to first dig into his ribs and waist, and then hook around his hips, Sherlock’s heels knocking into the curve of John’s backside, urging a few more short quaking thrusts out of him. Susan hadn’t done that.

In fact, Susan had only pushed in against him a few times, her long, waxed legs only an occasional sensual rush of smooth skin against him compared to the clinging, flexing, digging rub of Sherlock’s. Building the pace and tempo of his thrusts, John made sure to push in as deep as he could go, before pulling almost all the way out. The position, and the pillow under Sherlock's hips, allowed the blunt head of his cock to nudge against the sweet spot inside Sherlock with each driving movement and John couldn't help the small smile that graced his lips at the soft sounds it wrenched from him.

It didn’t take long, not long at all, for him to seize up in pleasure, face intensely flushed, skin layered in a thin blanket of sweat, and eyes rolling up, “Ah!--Fuh-fuck! _Fuck_ , fuckfuckfuckfuck!” Sherlock writhed beneath him, muscles tightening around John in quick, relentless cascades, and entire body shaking. He clawed at John’s back, grabbed fistfuls of duvet, rutted up, and kicked and crushed John with his legs.

“ _Shit_ ,” John moaned, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. He could easily come right now, his body was screaming with desire, but he wouldn't let himself to finish so quickly and so he slowed his hips, watching Sherlock ride the waves of pleasure.

Feeling rather smug, John tucked and bent Sherlock up beneath him so he could be all but chest to chest with Sherlock, their faces barely inches from one another He panted and stared and gave a breathless laugh, then started to thrust again, building the pace and depth with each passing moment. Sherlock began to grunt with each push, becoming more and more vocal as time went on, his body undulating and erratically squirming, trapped between too much and not enough. He was looking up at him still, eyes slightly glazed yet roaming over John’s face, shifting over every inch of him. Over his brow, his jaw, his nose, his gaze.

Reaching between the close press of their bodies, John cupped and stroked and stimulated the aroused shape of Sherlock, his hand swiftly tingling with lack of circulation, but it didn't matter. His arm could fall off for all he cared as he thrust harder and faster, getting closer to his own peak. John moaned and let his head drop down, not realising just how close their lips were until they were unexpectedly touching in a soft, barely-there kiss. Stiffening slightly, John pulled back and blinked, looking down at Sherlock for barely a second of wonder and question and panic, before he lunged forward and captured Sherlock's lips in a blistering kiss. Passion and heat bled out between them as John bullied Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue so he could sweep it inside, tasting a hint of coffee and a tang of John's own saltiness. It was too perfect, and yet not enough, as he thrust and fucked into Sherlock with a loud and filthy growl.

Sherlock’s own noises got louder in reply, his nose squashed into John’s cheek on every overzealous rut of his own hips, “ _Mm_!--Oh God... fuck... _John_ ,” he growled through his teeth in delight, scratching John’s nape to keep him close, to keep their mouths together. 

John sighed, inching his supporting arm up to tangle his fingers into Sherlock's sweaty curls, “I want you to - _Oh fuck_ \- I need to feel you come on me,” he pleaded, even as his hips pounded hard with an increasingly loud slap of flesh. Their lips met again, and John sucked on Sherlock's tongue, making the kiss messy and desperate with every passing second.

Bringing his shaking legs up John’s body, Sherlock angled up into John with a breathy, choking, whisper of a whimper, “ _Yes_ …” he answered into John’s mouth and their next kiss, arching to push their chests together. “Yesyesyesyes...” The chanting broke and got a little higher pitched, transforming in the last moment into a very loud, wanton moan.

“Oh! _Oh, fuck_!” John barked, knowing that he wasn't able to hold on any longer. His hips moved by themselves, body out of control, fucking hard into Sherlock as he chased his orgasm, feeling it building and building until John could only whisper Sherlock's name, before he was coming hard. Giving a final snapping thrust, John convulsed still and stiffened with a throbbing, twitch as he pulsed into the condom. Shivering and shaking with over-sensitivity, John pressed a few instinctual soft, gentle kisses to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and up to his damp hairline and pulled back, removing his hand from between them. “Did I hurt you?”

“Stop with the stupid questions,” Sherlock croaked, voice shaking whenever a juddering tremor ran through him, “Do I look hurt to you?” A massive, crooked, genuinely honest grin split his face and he snorted out a laugh, reaching to pat John’s cheek. John smiled in response and nuzzled into the hand without much thought.

The afterglow lasted a few moments and then John could feel himself beginning to soften, so shuffled back to reach the base of his cock, holding onto the condom as he pulled out and fell to beside Sherlock, “That was – _spectacular_ ,” he chuckled, pulling away the condom and tying it off. Putting it on the bedside table, amused at Sherlock's horrified face, John turned to put a warm hand on the inside of Sherlock's elbow. “So… what was the verdict? Am I a shit shag?”

“ _No_. Definitely not,” Sherlock told him after a deep, gusty sigh, still shivering. He stretched out his legs, pressing them together gingerly and then removed the pillow from under him, rolling onto his side to face John. 

A tickled, genuine smile slid across John's face at the news, “But obviously that was just one position. It's a strong position for me. I might be worse in others? - I mean… if you wanted to critique them all?”

“I _did_ say I would do more,” Sherlock pointed out, looking down over him with a slow sweep of his eyes.

“Yeah, you did. That's good,” John smiled, throwing his arms above his head. “Your bed is nice.”

“I know. That’s precisely one of the reasons why I chose it to do this on,” Sherlock said, staying beside him for a moment, seemingly unable to do more than breathe and twitch and shiver for a minute, then more. When he had finally calmed and gained back full control of his breath, his shivering muscles, and the use of all his limbs, he pushed up and sat on the edge. “You might have been bad with her though.” With a grin, he glanced over his shoulder at John with a roll of one gesturing hand. “You weren’t exactly as... _excited_ to be with her.”

“No,” John admitted, “No I – suppose I wasn't. She seemed nice at first but, well, I think it was more that she wanted to date a doctor. She wasn't really bothered about me as a person, I was just something she could hang off her arm and show off. Not that I'm anything to show off, but you know what I mean. I wasn't really that into her, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway...”

Sherlock frowned, “You’re terrific to show off,” he said, mouth still faintly quirked. “I did it the first time we met--Didn’t you know?”

John frowned back in return, “What? No, you didn't… when we… at the crime scene?” he asked and then blinked, “I just thought I was convenient for your needs and you were being kind.”

“Well, you were and I was, but I was also showing you off,” Sherlock told him and stood up, only for his legs to buckle, sending him stumbling across the room. He caught himself on his wardrobe, pulling himself upright with a huff of embarrassment, and pulled on his dressing gown. “Don’t say a word.”

Smirking widely, John closed his eyes, flopping a hand over them playfully, then parting his fingers to peek through the gaps, “Didn't see a thing. Look, I'm dozing. Couldn't see you fall over like Bambi on a frozen lake whilst my eyes were closed.”

He grumbled and padded back over, swaying slightly but not so much, one of his hands subconsciously cupping and touching between his legs, “Dispose of your ejaculate, please. I don’t want it festering on my bedside.”

“I'd have thought you'd have wanted it. Perfect opportunity for you to experiment--Actually, what am I saying, forget all of that. I didn't say anything,” John laughed, stretching out on Sherlock's mattress. “Can I not have a bit of a nap? It's lovely here. I'm all comfortable and sated. You've done me in.”

“If you need to rest after one round of sex... then perhaps I have misjudged you entirely,” Sherlock replied with his head tilted. 

“In my defence, you were really, really, really quite good,” John countered, smiling at Sherlock and winking. “I'm just trying to build up my strength again.”

“Not on my bed, you’re not,” Sherlock told him and ordered him off with a motion of one hand. “Come on. Off. Get changed. You have the rest of the day to build up your strength again.”

Grumbling, John rolled off the bed, wincing as his cock leaked onto his thigh, “Do you mind if I have a shower first? Then I'll come and collect my belongings seeing as you're kicking me out,” he mumbled with a mock put-upon sigh as he rubbed at the wetness on his skin and picked up the condom, walking naked towards the bathroom door.

Sherlock smirked at him and nodded, stepping in the way to block John’s path with an eager and interested look, “Next time we use your bed,” he said.

“Or the sofa?” John suggested, feeling years younger and overly mischievous. “Oh, or the kitchen? Bent over the countertop... and I always like it in the shower. We have so many options.” He moved in closer to Sherlock and put a hand on his waist, feeling the heat bleeding through the silk. “My bedroom is good for next time though.”

“... The kitchen?” Sherlock repeated after a second of startled silence with the beginnings of a pout. “ _Really_? You won’t let me do small little experiments with body parts or bodily fluids in there but you’d happily shag me?” Scoffing, Sherlock leaned into him, inches away from being pressed against John’s naked body completely. “You’re a hypocrite.” 

“There is a _slight_ difference between shagging and cutting up specimens, Sherlock,” John scoffed out with a puff of laughter, raising an eyebrow. “But we don't have to do it in the kitchen. Up against the living room wall? Me pressing your face into the wallpaper...”  
  
“You’ve done that to someone before?” Sherlock idly questioned with an alluring grin.  
  
“Mmm, but it didn't go so well. She was much smaller than me...” John said before shooting a heated, murderous glare in his direction, “ _Don't say a word about my height_. She was smaller than me and the position just wasn't – it wasn't _good_. We ended up doing it on the floor… I got carpet burns on my knees, hands and, somehow, my arse.”

“And how exactly will it work out better with me being _taller_ than you?” Sherlock chuckled. “I’m sure it would be fine if _you_ were the tall one, but... you’re not. - What if you can’t reach?” Another chuckle followed the first and he dodged the swat of John’s hand, submissively backing up and stepping away. “It had to be said. Your height is an issue with certain positions. It’s just a fact.” 

“Git,” John huffed, folding his arms and then wincing when he slapped himself with the used condom. “ _Urgh_. I think I should probably get rid of this. - Fancy another round later?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grinned, eyeing him up as he turned to leave the bedroom, still shaky on his feet, much to John’s amusement. John tapped Sherlock's bottom just before he'd got out of arms reach and repeated Sherlock's actions from earlier, rushing into the bathroom and closing the door.

**Author's Note:**

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